


Yellow

by okapi



Series: Twelve Cups of Tea [11]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bubble Bath, Cheesecake, Daddy Kink (Very Very Brief), Dildos, Discussion of Marriage and Cohabitation, F/F, Fem!Lestrade, Fem!mycroft, Frottage, Genderswap, Hurt/Comfort, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Tea, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 02:57:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3341021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade mistakes Mycroft’s favourite tea for an herbal remedy. Fem!Mystrade hurt/comfort without the actual hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yellow

“All clear. G’night, ma’am.”

“Good night.”

When Mycroft heard the front door close and the alarm beep, she went quickly about making herself a cup of tea.

At least two dozen types of tea were available to her in the office: several varieties of her signature Earl Grey (white, jasmine-scented, high-end, low-end); breakfast blends, afternoon blends, evening blends; diplomatic tokens from visiting delegations (not to mention gifts from grateful heads of state and other dignitaries for delicate matters handled delicately); and even a couple of herbal offerings that normally gathered dust, but, were, on occasion, appreciated by the ill, the expecting, and the progressively progressive.

Mycroft eschewed all for a tiny tin in the bottom drawer of her desk.

* * *

Sometime later, she settled back into her chair and sipped her tea.

[Yellow tea.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yellow_tea)

It was the only tea she wanted on a day like today, a tedious, tiresome day that made her feel much older than she was.

She studied her cup.

That it was her favourite was a secret. And she drank it secretly. Mostly at home, where a twin tin lay ensconced in a similar desk drawer in her study. Or, on occasion, in the office when she was assured of her privacy. And in need of some…

 _Comfort?_  Mycroft winced at the word.

 _Respite?_   Even worse.

 _Reflection?_   Better, though imprecise.

She did not favour it for the aroma or the taste, though those were pleasant enough. Nor for the caffeine, antioxidant properties, or any other purported health benefits, which she considered dubious at best.

She drank it for the colour.

It was the dark, almost golden, yellow of the roses that she bore to a grave monthly, or much more frequently prior to the arrival of Doctor Watson in Sherlock’s life.

The ritual was part pilgrimage, part debrief, part Victorian duty, part melancholic indulgence. She would lay the bundle of carefully selected blooms on the ground in front of the dark stone slab, and then she would launch into a synopsis of recent events in her own life as well as Sherlock’s. She would add commentary and then she would pause, listening for advice, praise, censure, reassurance, which never materialized beyond a swift upturn in the breeze or the staccato splatter of rain on her umbrella. Then she would straighten her tie, button her suit jacket, and—in Sherlock’s darkest days—stub out her cigarette, and return to her life.

Until next time.

Only four people in the entire population would even suspect that Mycroft Holmes was capable of such pure, unadulterated sentiment.

One stood in the doorway.

“Surprise!” cried Lestrade.

Mycroft Holmes did not like surprises.

Her job—nay, her whole career, if she were completely honest with herself—was about mitigating, forestalling, eradicating surprises. But making an exception for the petite auburn-haired beauty before her was quickly becoming the rule.

So she smiled.

Then she remembered the cup. In her hand. And like a teenager caught with a pornographic magazine, Mycroft Holmes had the irrational urge to throw it under the desk. To hide it.

_Mustn’t see!_

And just as quickly, Mycroft’s rational mind took over.

_Stupid!_

“My case wrapped up much, much sooner than anticipated, thanks to She-Who-Will-Not-Be-Named—and John, of course. So I thought I’d stop by and see if you were still interested in going to…”

Lestrade’s words died as her gaze fell on the yellow liquid. “Is that a new one? I’ve not seen it before. Gift?”

“Umm.”

_What is wrong with me? It’s a cup of tea, for Christ’s sake! Her seeing the maps of potential NATO missile silo locations scattered about the bloody desk could have us both shot for treason, and I’m quaking about some tea! Fabulous! I should have my head examined!_

“OH!” said Lestrade, with a broad wave of her hand. “You know what? Let’s forget about the thing. And have a night-in.”

_Get rid of it! Get rid of it!_

Mycroft gulped the entire contents of the cup. She successfully fought the urge to cough or sputter or spit. Lestrade’s eyes widened in alarm.

_Now you’ve done it. Now you’ve worried her. Well done, Idiot._

Her internal voice was taking on a decidedly—and disturbingly—Sherlockian tone.

“Are you sure? I thought you were quite keen on…though I do have a bit more…”

_Must we do our worst Colin Firth impersonation? Pull yourself together! Now!_

Mycroft gathered the documents on her desk together and stacked them neatly. She hurriedly moved the empty teacup aside as Lestrade came around the desk and hitched one hip on the edge. She put a hand on either arm of Mycroft’s chair and leaned forward so that their lips almost touched. Then she smiled.

_I like that colour. What was it called?[Black Honey](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1515455/chapters/3203099). Nice._

Mycroft’s eyes fell to Lestrade’s cleavage, patently visible with the top two buttons of her blouse unfastened. A stab of want struck her, and she did nothing to disguise her desire when she looked up.

_Funny! You’re embarrassed about a cup of tea, but not ogling a woman’s breasts!_

But, through the fog of growing lust, the reprimand was not as half as sharp, as biting, as scathing, as the earlier ones, and Mycroft found herself ignoring it in favour of appreciating the woman before her and wallowing in the sensations that their proximity elicited.

“You look knackered,” said Lestrade. She took Mycroft’s tie between two fingers and stroked downward, a gesture that never failed to tempt. “And I have the sudden urge to take care of you. To take _very good_ care of you.” Lestrade’s voice fell to a pleading purr. “Let me, Mycroft. Will you let me? Please, Mycroft.” Mycroft watched two fingers skim her tie again. “You’ll feel so _very, very_ good.”

_She slays me. This beautiful creature slays me every time. With piffle._

“You are an evil woman.”

“Mmm. Thank God I’m on our side. Let’s go. Now.”

Mycroft glanced at the documents on her desk. “One. Hour.”

Lestrade’s lips twitched in a victorious smile. “Meet you at yours.” She planted a quick kiss on Mycroft’s cheek.

And then she was gone.

The front door closed. The alarm beeped.

Mycroft sighed.

Then she threw the cup against the wall.

_Idiot!_

* * *

“Open your mouth.”

Steam rose from the bath. The popping of tiny bubbles made a kind of white noise, only interrupted by Mycroft’s quiet stirring in the water.

She mashed the creamy sweetness in her mouth and licked her lips.

“Vanilla bean cheesecake. With chocolate sauce,” she announced.

“Mmm,” said Lestrade. “From that place…”

“The crust…” said Mycroft.

“Yes. Good, eh? More?”

“Please.”

Mycroft normally did not go in for this sort of thing. But the bath had already been drawn when she’d arrived, piled high with soapy suds. Like something out of a film.

Lestrade had ordered her to strip, make herself comfortable, and close her eyes.

Mycroft, of course, had heard the plate and fork and smelled the slight tang of luxury dessert, but she’d restrained herself from delving too deeply for the sake of being…

…surprised?

This woman was evil. Mycroft Holmes did not like surprises.

Lestrade knelt at the side of the tub and fed her, bite by bite.

The cake was excellent, rich and smooth, in contrast to the bubble-gummy odour that emanated from the bath.

“What is this?” asked Mycroft, raising a foamy hand and turning it, examining it.

A bright pink bottle appeared in Lestrade’s hand.

“[Mister. Bubble](http://www.mrbubble.com/).”

Mycroft stared in horror. “From where?!”

“John gave it to me. Stamford gave it to her. Stamford’s cousins sent it in her Christmas box this year.”

“American?”

“Yes?”

“It’s for children!” protested Mycroft. Being fed. Being bathed with…this…it was beginning to smack a bit strongly of infantilism for Mycroft’s taste.

“And for the child at heart!” countered Lestrade, laughing. She blew a spray of suds at Mycroft’s face.

Mycroft leaned back against the end of the tub. “When I was a child, I had the heart of a septuagenarian.”

“That I believe. Stamford’s cousins said she reminded them of this bloke,” Lestrade indicated the round dancing pink figure with very large eyes on the bottle.

“Rude!”

Lestrade shrugged. “American. Want me to get rid of it?”

Mycroft closed her eyes and relaxed. “No. No since wasting…” She lifted her knees one by one.

Lestrade grinned. “Right. Keep it for _economy_. Last bite?”

“Mmm.” Plate and fork soon clattered on the floor.

“Alright. Next act, _the bath_. Sit up a bit, love.”

Mycroft complied. And then her skin from neck to toe was being scrubbed with a rough sponge.

“Sort of…hedonistic…not to mention selfish,” Mycroft mumbled and rolled so that the sponge could scratch her back in a manner that was as delicious as the cheesecake. She cracked her eyes and looked over her shoulder, spying a smiling Lestrade, sleeves rolled up, pushing her hair back with a damp hand.

“But you’re not protesting half as much as I anticipated,” Lestrade replied. “That speaks volumes to your state of mind and body—as the barristers would say.”

“Hate barristers.”

“Everybody hates barristers. Other side.”

Soon Mycroft heard Lestrade removing her blouse. And then the rough sponge was replaced by clever, clever fingers that found each of the day’s, week’s, month’s knots and worked them loose. Mycroft did not stifle her groans, which echoed off the tile. And if she had only turned a half-centimetre just-so she could have brought herself off right then and there.

But she didn’t.

She wanted to savour the sensation for as long as possible. Let it simmer. Burn. Consume her.

The want.

And then a soft sponge being drawn across her body in a way that was almost…worshipful?

She _was_ getting potty in her old age. So she decided to forego classification for pure enjoyment and allowed herself to drift on the quiet cloud of warmth and love.

So immersed in the wonderful miasma was Mycroft, that insistent rubbing of her…not genitalia, but slightly higher…lower abdomen gave her only the faintest pause. Not really an erogenous zone…but…

_Whatever._

When the sponge disappeared, Mycroft’s eyes fluttered open.

“Better,” declared Lestrade. “Up.” Mycroft heard the _gulp, gulp_ of the drain.

Mycroft had let her desire simmer too long because the instant the terrycloth towel touched her mons, she collapsed into Lestrade’s arms and bucked herself to an embarrassingly loud and sloppy orgasm.

Or so it seemed to her. Lestrade just made soothing noises and stroked her head tenderly.

Minutes later, Mycroft batted the pyjamas away and huffed indignantly at the “Are you sure?” that the angry gesture earned her.

“Sure that I want to _fuck_ my beautiful girlfriend? Yes. Enough pampering,” she growled. She smiled triumphantly at the shiver that the word elicited in her lover. Lestrade’s clothes soon decorated the floor of the bedroom. And then she was under Mycroft, sighing softly as Mycroft devoured her neck and chest and licked hungrily at her nipples.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” chanted Mycroft; she teased Lestrade’s folds with one finger and nuzzled between her breasts playfully.

“Holy Mother of God, yes!”

Provoking the invocation of any Marian derivation was, Mycroft had quickly learned, a Very Good Sign in the Catholic-school-girl-cum-Detective-Inspector-cum-Wanton-Minx currently writhing beneath her.

“Can’t wait,” Mycroft mumbled. She turned away from Lestrade and pulled the bedside table drawer open. She retrieved an L-shaped dildo and made to put one end inside herself.

“NO!”

Mycroft froze. Then she threw the dildo to the floor.

“I mean, that is, there’s no need to do anything that would, I mean, you don’t have to, it might be, I mean for you, it might be…uh…you know, having something…uh…”

At Lestrade’s stammering, Mycroft’s mind split.

Part of her mind was directing her movements, pulling her lover slowly to her, brushing lips to auburn hair, enveloping her in, what Mycroft hoped, was a gentle embrace.

The other part was at work. With lightning speed, she added a Fibonacci sequence of numbers, of data points, together until...

…she lined them up like dominoes and watched them fall backwards…

…the final tile landing in a cup of yellow tea.

Now what to do about it.

This was why she was superior to Sherlock. The mere acquisition of knowledge was straightforward. It was the judicious application, the use of said knowledge, which made the difference, the difference between a philosopher/scientist/detective and…

…well, a kingmaker.

She could ignore her conclusion. But subterfuge at this point seemed a more long-term hazardous choice that the proverbial High Road.

“My Dear,” she began, “that tea that you saw me drinking earlier…”

“Mmm.”

“It’s yellow tea.”

“Yeah, very yellow.”

“It’s called yellow tea. Chinese.”

“Hmm.”

“ _Camellia sinensis_ , just like black tea or green tea. It’s actually prepared very similarly to green but has a much slower drying phase which allows for the…”

Lestrade pushed back from her.

“It’s my favourite,” said Mycroft, feeling a wave of irrational panic sweep through her. But the minute the secret was out, it seemed not to matter. At all.

“It’s tea, regular tea?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not chasteberry?”

“No.”

“Dandelion root?”

“No.”

“Dong quai?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then you’re not suffering from any kind of premenstrual…” Lestrade made a vague gesture toward Mycroft’s abdomen.

“No,” said Mycroft, in the gentlest, softest tone she could manage.

“FUCK ME!”

Lestrade slumped on the bed with her arms crossed over her eyes.

 _Not likely_ , thought Mycroft, _at this rate_. But she kept her mouth shut.

“I am an idiot.”

“My Dear, it was a mere…”

But Lestrade silenced her with a wild waving of her hands. She sprang off the bed and faced Mycroft.

“I spent all bloody day hearing from your _sister_ ,” the word was spat with venom, “how much an idiot I am and having things—things I admit I should have seen, I would have seen, with time—pointed out to me. I didn’t really expect to come home and have to re-live the whole experience all over again. Christ, Christ, Christ!”

Mycroft’s instinct to go into damage control mode halted on one word.

_Home._

She had called this place, Mycroft’s residence, home. She considered it her home, though she had her own flat—tiny and cluttered, but not without charm. And hers, of course.

_Home._

Mycroft rolled the word around in her head. She was so lost in her thoughts, in the un-before-considered possibilities, that she failed to notice until far too late that Lestrade was picking up her clothes and dressing.

_She’s leaving!_

_No, no, no!_

_Not now, not with this revelation!_

“Sometimes I wonder how I ever became…,” Lestrade sat in a chair and wrangled herself into her bra, “No, you know what? I know how I got where I am. I am an investigator! And a bloody good one…because I investigate! Ask questions! Not deduce…just look around and blub, blub, blub, blub, blub…like some people! I should have asked what that tea was,” she stuffed her foot hastily into one sock. “Still feel like a bloody fool. All that,” she waved a hand in the direction of the bath, “because I thought you were…’under the weather’…in need of…”

“I was, I was, my Dear. Not for the reason you believed, but nevertheless…”

“I should have asked the question,” said Lestrade wearily, picking up the second sock and bending her leg at the knee.

Mycroft had to stop her flight somehow. This required at least some semblance of clothing. One did not go into battle without armour. Mycroft went to the wardrobe and retrieved her dressing gown. “I have a question for you,” she said, tying the sash.

“Shoot,” said Lestrade, sticking her toes in the rolled bundle of sock.

“What are your thoughts on: permanent cohabitation, with me, of course, or formalizing, that is to say, legalizing, our relationship in the form a state-recognized—but sadly, in this millennium, probably not sacramental, I’m afraid—commitment?”

Lestrade stared. And then blinked rapidly. The sock fell to the floor.

_Well that did it. She stopped._

“Mycroft,” Lestrade began slowly, “just so I am not ‘yellow-tea-ing’ this situation...”

_Not an un-useful phrase, when you think about it._

“Are you asking me to move in with you or to marry you?”

“I am asking for your current perspective on either question.”

More staring.

“Christ, you certainly know how to stop a girl in her tracks.”

Mycroft knew many ways to stop people dead in their tracks, but now was not the time to discuss her fieldwork days.

“I need to think,” said Lestrade quickly.

_Think here. Think here. With me. Don’t leave._

“I could…,” Mycroft walked toward the door.

“No! Christ, no. Stay. Please.”

 _Good, good_. Mycroft would stay and wait. For as long as requested. She sat on the edge of the bed with hands folded, the picture of the perfect student that she had always been.

Lestrade bent forward and buried her head in her hands. Her blouse hung on her arms, unbuttoned. She wore bra, knickers, and one sock.

Finally, Lestrade rubbed her face and looked into Mycroft’s eyes.

“To the latter, I am…favourably inclined. To the former, no.”

The answer surprised Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes did not like surprises.

“You would marry me, yet prefer to live…separately?”

It was a horrid thought.

Lestrade waved her arms. “This is you. Quintessentially you. Apart for a pair of clean knickers and a toothbrush, there’s no ‘me’ here.”

_Only in the place that matters most._

Lestrade continued, “I couldn’t live here full-time any more than you could live in my shoe-box.”

Mycroft looked around her and saw the dark wood and the fine linen and the artwork and the adornments. Saw the colours, the chocolates and the caramels and the creams, through new eyes. Like a visitor looking at museum antiquities, relics of another time, another place.

Another Mycroft.

And suddenly Mycroft didn’t feel so at home, so comfortable in her surroundings, but she harkened back to her lover’s earlier words. “But you said that this was home. Sherlock, the crime scene, etcetera, but when you came _home_ …”

“I didn’t mean here, to your flat!”

“No?”

“I meant to _you_. You’re my home. Wherever you are.”

Mycroft stared at her.

_Now who feels foolish?_

“Silly,” teased Lestrade. She leaned forward and ruffled Mycroft’s hair. She swivelled her head. “This place is so very you.”

“Mightn’t we find a place, a new place, together, that would be ‘so very us’?” Mycroft felt as if her heart were in Lestrade’s hands. She held her breath.

“Really? Mycroft! I couldn’t even meet you half-way financially…”

“Damn the money! Would you _want_ to? That’s the only question that matters!”

Lestrade smiled and moved beside Mycroft on the bed. She took Mycroft’s hand in hers and said,

“Yes.”

Mycroft crushed her in her arms and kissed her until she was dizzy.

“And Mycroft…about the other question,” Lestrade mumbled.

“Believe me, my Dear, when I propose marriage to you, there will be no ambiguity.”

“On either side,” teased Lestrade. Mycroft squeezed Lestrade’s shoulders and planted a kiss on the top of her head. “So does Anthea know a good estate agent?”

Mycroft huffed. “Anthea _is_ a good estate agent.”

Lestrade laughed. “Is there anything that man can’t do?”

“He’s paid very well not to have too many chinks in his armour. Come here.”

Mycroft opened her dressing gown, and for the second time that night, Lestrade shucked her clothes. Mycroft felt their mutual desire rekindle.

Lestrade sat on the edge of the bed, between Mycroft’s open legs, facing away from her. Mycroft squeezed Lestrade’s breasts and licked at her neck. Lestrade reached back and clawed at Mycroft’s head, pulling it forward. Lestrade leaned back and Mycroft curled forward, so she could barely nip at Lestrade’s pink bud before she released her.

“Oh, Mycroft.”

Mycroft turned her so that she could lave Lestrade’s neck and breasts with a wet tongue.

“You know,” Lestrade mused in a low growl, “we’ll be ‘playing house.’”

Mycroft pulled her mouth off Lestrade’s nipple with a pornographic _pop_. “I’ll make an honest woman out of you, or you of me, if that’s your concern.” She kneaded Lestrade’s buttocks with firm fingers, moving closer and closer to her cunt.

Lestrade shook her head. “I mean, every once in a while, if it the mutual inclination strikes, it would be more than appropriate, for you to play Daddy.”

Mycroft stopped.

“You are an evil woman.”

Lestrade grinned.

“Yup.”

And then the dildo was found. And cleaned. And licked and sucked and finally sunk into Lestrade’s wet cunt. Lestrade was face-down on the bed, moaning and begging.

“Please, please.”

“Shhh, shhh, think I don’t know what this good, good girl wants?” Mycroft guided the dildo in and out of Lestrade, slowly and steadily, rocking their bodies together. “Every night, this sweet cunt, waiting for me. I’ll go insane. England will fall.” Mycroft thrust hard once, twice, and a third time. Then she ran a hand up and down Lestrade’s side and across her back. “So good, so good, so impossibly, improbably good. More than I ever deserved in this lifetime.”

“I hate the word ‘deserve.’ Just love me,” groaned Lestrade.

And then Mycroft thrust one final time and covered Lestrade’s body with her own, hearing her cries of release, feeling the vibrations of her body, breathing in the smell of her sex, wanting to capture every element of the moment and freeze it.

Mycroft quickly removed the dildo from Lestrade and herself and tossed it aside; Lestrade curled toward her in a ball. Mycroft held her close and rubbed her lover’s back and buttocks and legs lightly.

Then a thought occurred. And suddenly, as with the yellow tea, she didn’t want her secrets to be so secret anymore. She waited until Lestrade opened her eyes and pushed up on one hand.

“What is it?” Lestrade asked.

“Get dressed. I want to take you somewhere,” said Mycroft.

* * *

“No security detail?” They passed through an iron gate. Mycroft had one hand in Lestrade’s; in the other, she carried a bouquet of yellow roses.

“I’ve got a Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard at my side. I feel quite safe. Even at this hour. And it feels quite appropriate—even at this hour—to make introductions.”

“Ooo. Mummy Holmes?”

“Indeed. She’s quite reticent,” said Mycroft with an amused smile. “But I’m sure she’ll approve.”

And they stood together, facing the roses and the stone slab, with Mycroft standing behind Lestrade, arms wrapped around her. And she began to tell stories. Stories that had never been told. Of her childhood, of the woman whose name the stone slab bore, of family lore and youthful antics. It seemed that with the floodgates open, Mycroft could not stop telling stories. That she did not want to.

* * *

When they reached the flat, Lestrade was asleep in the passenger seat.

Mycroft brushed a gentle hand across her cheek and marvelled, not for the first time that night, at the power of yellow tea.

It would always be her favourite.

**Author's Note:**

> I have been drinking [Golden Dragon](http://www.teavana.com/the-teas/yellow-teas/p/golden-dragon-yellow-tea) from Teavana while writing this story. 
> 
> The inspiration for the entire Twelve Cups of Tea series was a throw-away line in [Chapter 3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1685879/chapters/3596393) of [Lipstick Stamps](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1685879/chapters/3584180) in which Lestrade brings Mycroft her favourite tea to London Heathrow during a sexy lay-over.
> 
> I’ve spent the better part of nine months (and not inconsequential funds, given my pauper’s budget) searching for Mycroft’s favourite tea. Earl Grey comes to mind, but of course, that’s Business, the Public Sphere. What does she drink when she’s by herself? I am not wholly satisfied with my conclusion, but I am pleased that I managed to—with the series—address all six types of proper tea (black, white, green, yellow, pu-erh, and oolong) as well as notable blends and favourites. Now my tea cupboard is bursting, and I suspect it will take me at least another nine months to consume all my Research.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
